The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. I've come all these miles for this young fellow; but I don't cotton to the idea of lallygagging four weeks in this burg. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. I just want him, and no one else will do. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature.
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